


Weeknights

by frannyzooey



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28886349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frannyzooey/pseuds/frannyzooey
Summary: In search of a weekly babysitter for his daughter, Frankie Morales asks the daycare if they would recommend someone. Directing him to a college nanny website, he searches through the bios one night, coming across yours: the credentials and qualifications just what he is looking for, he decides to hire you. The photo on the website grainy and outdated, he isn’t quite prepared when you show up at his door the first night - beginning a professional relationship that slowly slides into a personal one.
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales & Reader, Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Reader, Francisco "Catfish" Morales/You
Comments: 18
Kudos: 82





	1. MONDAY

Arms full at pickup; one with his kid, the other with her bag, he had asked one of her teachers for a recommendation on where to find a sitter.

“Just like a once-a-week thing”, he explained, shifting to balance the weight of his daughter as she fit her face into the fold of his neck. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, the chaos of the classroom rushed around his legs as he listened to the woman tell him about a website – some kind of college nanny thing - and he mentally took note with a nod, thanking her before leaving.

Later that night, after dinner time and bath time and story time and finally bedtime, his body slumped into the couch and his feet resting on the edge of the coffee table, he scrolled through the site. Certifications meaning the most to him, especially in his line of work, he liked your bio; the listing of CPR, first aid and water safety listed under your small and grainy picture. 

Scrolling further down, he read through your details - currently enrolled in a graduate program at a nearby school (an older student, he liked that), the screen listed that your schedule was flexible, that you lived in the area and that you were looking for something part time. Perfect.

Clicking on the “Contact” button, he quickly typed out an email and hit send before tossing his phone on the couch; a broad two-handed swipe of his hands over his face with a sigh before shuffling off to bed. 

In the morning, leaning against the counter while waiting for the coffee to be ready, he checked his emails. Mostly spam, half a dozen or so old notifications from the daycare app with pictures of Lucia’s day yesterday, a couple of work emails. Surprisingly, the site had already contacted him to set up the first appointment. The short message outlining that you’d accepted and confirming the date and time of your first shift, he was relieved to have something in place for this week, not wanting to get anymore shit from Santi about missing another guys night.

Just hoping you were as good as your bio said, he didn’t expect you to be so _pretty._

**WEEK ONE**

Peering at the addresses on the houses, your car is a slow crawl down the block as you search for the one listed on your phone screen and when you find it – a neat yard, a truck in the driveway – you park in front, killing the engine.

It had been a long day in class and as you gathered up your wallet, stuffing it into the pocket of your bag, you hoped tonight would be an easy one. 

Babysitting in your spare time was a good way to earn some extra cash – the schedule often flexible, the shifts usually at night allowing you to work on schoolwork, the kids _generally_ well behaved and as you knocked on the front door, you mentally crossed your fingers.

The first-time meeting with a new client always slightly awkward, you fix a friendly, open look on your face when he answers the door and you will yourself not to stare too long at the handsome man in front of you.

Everything about him looks so _soft_ : his deep brown eyes, his thick dark curls, the rounds of his broad shoulders, his t-shirt, his worn jeans and you extend your hand out to shake his. 

“Hi”, you smile, “Mr. Morales?”

“Francisco – uh, Frankie”, he replies, his warm, dry hand engulfing yours tightly before releasing it.

Telling you to come in, you slip your shoes off and set your bag down in the entry way before following him into the house. You take in the neat spaces – sparse décor (typical for a single man), Barbie’s scattered around on the carpet, a small plate of sliced apples on the coffee table in the living room – and he keeps walking, leading you into the kitchen.

“This is Lucia”, he says, walking over to his daughter and you smile and wave at her, watching her mirror the motion. She looks like him, with her large brown eyes and her thick dark hair, curled at the ends as it surrounds her small face and bending down next to her chair, he tells who you are, explaining that you’ll be watching her while he goes out for the night. 

“You’ll be sleeping when I get home, but I’ll come and check on you, okay?” His voice is low and soothing when he reaches out to smooth her hair back, tucking it neatly behind her ear and she nods, already going back to her coloring. 

“She shouldn’t need much”, he says, standing up. “I already gave her a bath and dinner, so I would say another hour or so of playing and she should be ready for bed.”

“Sounds good”, you reply with a reassuring smile.

Patting his pockets to make sure he has everything he needs, he reaches for a jacket hanging on the back of a chair and shrugs it on; the tan, worn looking fabric soft and comfortably broken in. His hat comes next – Standard Oil, you read, wondering if that has something to do with his job – and he swipes his hand through his waves before adjusting the hat over them.

“You have my number if you need me?”, he checks and you tell him yes, pulling out a chair to sit down next to Lucia. Most parents radiating a sort of nervous hesitancy, he was no different, but he also seemed antsy to get going, like he was looking forward to getting out of the house.

“Okay – well I guess that’s it.” He smiles at you and you admire the pleasant way his face lights up with it; his cheeks pulling up to make his eyes disappear, the creases that crinkle around the edges of them. It’s kind of cute, you think, the beard – the way it’s missing a section on each side, the sparse, wiry hair patchy on his cheeks, his mustache the only truly full part of it.

“Be good, Lucia”, his deep voice echoes through the hallway as he calls out to her and you watch him amble towards the door as she giggles, switching her red crayon for a purple one as the front door opens and then shuts. 

Quickly gaining Lucia’s trust with how neatly you color in the unicorn sheet she slipped over to you, you spend the next hour asking her questions – her age, her favorite color, does she go to school – and she is pleasantly chatty, happy to have a captive audience. Informing you proudly that she has two houses, she tells you that sometimes she lives with her mom and sometimes with her dad and that her mom lets her have a dog, but her dad does not.

You smile at the matter-of-fact statement, like that is all that you need to know about her and the two of you are engrossed in a conversation about her friends at school as you go through the bedtime motions – brushing teeth, washing face, putting on pajamas. 

Easy enough to put to bed, you leave her door cracked – “My dad leaves the hallway light on”, she tells you – and so you do you; the small beam of light shining on the edge of her purple comforter.

Quietly padding down the hallway, you make your way into the living room while you wait to make sure she falls asleep. Always the most interesting parts of people’s houses, you head for the bookshelf in the corner – this one currently jammed with a mix of books and pictures – and as you take in the titles, an idea of this family begins to flesh itself out in your mind.

Books; a lot of them. Always a good sign, you think, and you tilt your head to the side, reading the spines. Lots of heavy textbooks – engineering, math, science and further down, specialties – aeronautical engineering, aviation guides. The complex subjects in contrast with the somewhat boyish face you recall from earlier, you raise your eyebrows when the book titles slide into pilot manuals and FAA regulation guides. Only just now vaguely remembering something about the father being listed as a privately contracted pilot on his application, you gently nudge a heavy book out of the way to find the true prize – a small collection of fiction.

A couple of westerns, half a dozen books on war, you smile at the well-worn white bindings that list the familiar name of Salinger. Sliding one from the shelf, you take in the creased cover and thumb through the heavily used book, trying to picture the man who reads those textbooks also reading this.

Keeping an ear out for any sounds from Lucia’s room, you replace it and lean in close to look at the various pictures on display: Frankie with a sleeping Lucia, his face pressed into her small body with an adoring smile on his face, another of the two of them at the beach; a third of him with a group of guys, beers held loosely in their hands, their arms around each other as they laugh.

Further down, the lowest shelf is filled with children’s books – thick board books for infants slowly transitioning into soft paperbacks, first time readers, a couple of coloring books.

The living room cozy with just the single lamp in the corner emitting a soft glow, you admire the school picture of Lucia hanging on the wall; another underneath of her with two elderly people, probably her grandparents with how much they resemble her.

Having heard nothing for at least ten minutes, you check on her and she is fast asleep, her small back facing the door, her dark hair a tumble on her pillow.

Silently rejoicing at how easy the night has been so far, you grab your backpack from the entryway and after checking the lock on the front door, make your way to the kitchen to study.

–

It’s late but not too late when he returns, and you look up from your computer; a pile of textbooks surrounding it as you sit at the kitchen table.

“Hey”, he greets you, walking into the kitchen, shrugging his jacket off. “How did it go? Hopefully not too bad?”

“Not at all”, you reply, reaching to close your books. “She was a piece of cake.”

Nodding in approval, he comes closer, passing your chair on his way to the sink and you smell the cool air of the night, the yeasty smell of beer and under it all, a very faint whiff of crisp cologne. You shut your laptop with a click, gathering up your various highlighters and as you stuff everything in your bag, you watch him out of the corner of your eye. Getting a drink, his tanned throat working with each swallow of water, you quickly look away before he catches you staring at it.

“Did you get some work done?”, he asks, leaning against the counter and you tell him yes, shrugging your bag over your shoulder. He looks politely interested as he asks questions about it, his words softly rounded with an edge of weariness as the two of you chat, making your way towards the door.

“Thanks again”, he says softly, his husky voice quiet in the entry way as he watches you slip your shoes on. “I really appreciate it.”

You stand by the door, one hand resting on the knob of it as he looks at you; his features dark in the dim space. “If you think this is a good fit, I’d love to have you back next week.”

“Yea, I think it went really well. That would be great”, you answer, and you mean it; if every night were like tonight, this would be the easiest money you’ll ever make.

He smiles at your words before yawning, reaching to cover his mouth with his hand and you can’t help but notice the way his t-shirt pulls up with the motion, a peek of his hip just visible. Your eyes linger on the tiny sliver of exposed flesh just for a moment before looking away.

“Sorry”, he apologizes, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand and you smile in understanding, internally chiding yourself. _Get it together._

Agreeing to come back next week at same time, you say your goodbyes and leave the house; the image of that small section of skin following you all the way into your car; all the way home.

–

**WEEK THREE**

“Looks…….dense”, he says, standing next to your chair, peering down at your textbook.

Having just gotten home from the bar, he’d asked you about Lucia’s night before coming to peer at your books. Not the first time he’s expressed interest in your schoolwork, it’s always so distracting the way he stands so close, his hips level with your face and you push away the unbidden thoughts the position brings, forcing yourself to keep your eyes on the open page.

“Yea – it can be.” You smile up at him, at the way he is frowning with concentration while skimming the text and you lean back in your chair. “Nothing like the books you have in the living room though. Those are big brain.”

He glances at you, a smirk on his face with the words that you just used and with one last look at the page, he moves away. “You saw those, huh?” Leaning against the kitchen counter, he crosses his arms, and you watch the material of his shirt pull tight around his bicep. “You snooping in my house?”

“I would hardly call looking at your books snooping”, you say smoothly, and he grins at your reply.

“Seriously – those engineering books? Those math ones?” Your eyebrows raise, a slight dazed look of intimidation flashing across your features. “ _Those_ look dense.”

“They weren’t so bad”, he says quietly. “It was the 8 a.m. classes that were the killer.” He flashes you a smile and you mirror it, nodding your head in agreement. It must have been quite a while since he was in school, but the hatred for 8 a.m. classes is universal.

“This seem like it’s going alright?”, he asks you, his tired eyes softly watching you. “The schedule and everything? Because I think so and –“, he jerks his head, gesturing to Lucia’s room, “ – she really likes you. She talks about you all the time.”

You smile at that, the image of her sweet face floating into your mind and you quickly nod.

“Yea, I think it’s going really good”, you reply, sitting up to close your books. “I like her too. She’s so sweet. And chatty.”

He laughs at the statement, agreeing. “Yea, she’ll talk your ear off if you let her.”

“How were your friends tonight?”, you ask, slowly sliding the books into your bag. “Was it fun?”

“Those guys are always fun”, he replies, launching into a story about the night. Telling you last week about where he goes – down to the local bar with some old friends just to get out of the house - you like the way he always seems so relaxed when he gets home; the look of a person who has clearly enjoyed himself. 

You quietly laugh at his description of a prank he played on Santi during basic training, one that he reminded him of tonight and that had started a good-natured yelling match about the real story and when he walks you to the door, he’s still talking as he leans against the wall while you slide your shoes on.

“Thank you”, he says, something he says every time you leave his house, and you like the way it sounds; so soft and genuine.

“No problem”, you reply, one hand resting on the doorknob. “You look tired. You should get some sleep.”

“Yea, I would if someone would stop talking”, he teases, knowing full well he has been the one to keep you and when you start to protest, he winks. 

Flustered by the small gesture, you roll your eyes at him and say goodnight; his deep voice echoing the words before he shuts the door behind you.

–

**WEEK SIX**

It’s quiet, the TV low in the background as you absentmindedly stir the pasta in the boiling water and you glance at the clock, silently thankful that you don’t have an early class in the morning. He’s later than usual tonight and you wonder if it’s because he was late leaving; too busy talking to you.

He’s been doing that more, staying to chat for awhile after you arrive, sitting at the table with you and Lucia, or joining the two of you on the living room floor, playing while asking about your week. You smile at the memory of making him laugh tonight, telling him about how you scared yourself while watching a horror movie alone; his husky laugh filling the air.

With the way he lingers, it’s like he is eager to see you, just as content to skip the bar and stay here with the two of you but you convince yourself that you are only imagining that because of how much you _want him_ to feel that way when you hear his key in the front door. 

Straining the noodles when he walks into the kitchen, you look at him and he smiles back; a sincere one that looks like he is happy to find you right here when he walked in the door and even though you know you shouldn’t read into it, you feel your stomach flip at the sight.

“How’d it go tonight?”, he asks, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it on a kitchen chair.

“Pretty good”, you reply, standing by the stove, the strainer next to you while you slowly melt butter in the pan. “She was pretty easy, as always. We played a lot of Barbie’s.”

“Her favorite these days”, he hums, walking over to stand next to you. He peers into the pot and then up at you and when you meet his gaze, it’s an automatic smile that spreads across your features at the way he is looking back, his eyes warm and bright, softened with affection.

“What are you doing?” he asks, taking one last look into the pot before grabbing a beer from the fridge. Twisting off the top, he walks back over to you and he is just about to take a drink from it when you reach your hand out, motioning him to give it to you. Your eyes never leaving the pot, he raises his eyebrows in surprise, a small huff of a laugh at your outstretched hand and he hands the bottle to you, watching you take a sip.

Getting another for himself, he leans against the counter next to you and you set the bottle down to carefully pour in the milk and dump in the powdered cheese.

“The secret is”, you say seriously, looking over at him, “you have to melt the butter first, then mix in the milk and cheese and then you stir in the noodles. That’s how you make the best mac and cheese.”

“Is that so”, he smiles, watching as you dump in the pasta. His gaze lingers on the soft swell of your cheek, the line of your neck and he takes a long swallow of his beer, watching you nod.

“Well, it smells good”, he says. “Can I have some?”

Grabbing two bowls, you make him carry the beers out to the couch and you sit together, playfully bickering about the show on the TV while eating. 

This is also new; your conversations once polite and stilted as the two of you got to know each other, these past few weeks have slid into a comfortable routine of staying for awhile after he gets home and just like the formality of the conversations have changed, so has the location – switching from the kitchen table to the living room couch.

It’s funny, you think, the way he seems to be glad to have company even though he just got back from seeing people, even though he must be tired with the hour it is, but maybe he _is_ glad to have it, having been on his own for a while. It’s a feeling you can relate to, living by yourself. Nice to have your own space for studying and also nice not to have to deal with roommates, it does get lonely after a while. 

“I can’t believe you watch this”, he laughs, setting his empty bowl down on the coffee table.

“Oh, be quiet”, you answer, taking a sip of your beer. “Don’t act like I didn’t find this episode in your recordings.”

He gives you a side long look, a sneaky smile tugging at his lips and you laugh as he eases into the couch, his hips shifting down on the cushion so he can lean back. His arms extend above his head for a moment in a stretch, the long limbs reaching towards the ceiling and you see that small peek of skin at his hip again, but this time a piece of his belly as well; a small, dark trail of hair leading down into the waistband of his jeans.

Dragging your eyes away from the sparse patch of hair, you ask him about the night and he rests his head back against the cushion, telling you about it. 

You admire his profile as he talks, the strong bridge of his nose, the slight purse of his lips, the lean line of his throat. It’s endearing, the way his hair curls up around the edge of his hat, the thick unruly strands that brush against the back of his neck. 

You briefly think about what it would be like if he leaned over and kissed you. Would his lips be as soothing as his voice is, just as slow and steady or would they be more urgent? They look soft under his moustache and you imagine the warm press of them, the way they would fit neatly against your own and when he turns his head to smile at you, you realize you haven’t been listening to a word he’s been saying.

“Tired?”, he asks, looking at your dazed expression and you blink your eyes open, suddenly aware of how late it really is.

“Sorry”, you apologize sheepishly, trying not to look at his mouth again but you can’t help it when he is so close, a tired smile tugging at his lips.

“No”, he sighs, sitting up and sliding to the edge of the cushion, “I’m sorry. I keep you later and later every time.” Standing with a stretch, he holds his hand out for you. 

Grasping it, you pull yourself up and you can feel the heat from his body against yours with how close he is standing. It’s a fleeting warmth, one that makes you gently inhale just to smell his familiar scent before it dissipates. 

You don’t want to go, wanting to find one more thing to talk about just to prolong your visit, but you know you shouldn’t and looking at his weary eyes, you feel bad for staying as long as you have. When you apologize for keeping him late though, he is quick to wave your worry away. 

“No, don’t worry about it – I like talking to you”, he tells you, his gaze steadily focused on yours and you can tell he means it.

–

_“I like talking to you.”_

The words echo in your head as you get ready for bed. You like it too, probably more than you should. You think about him and his daughter, the way you look forward to seeing them every week, the way they’ve quickly wormed their way into your thoughts – each charming in their own way – and the way you anticipate the nights where you have to head over there. Those words in your head again, you brush your teeth and wonder if they hold any deeper meaning. 

Climbing into bed, you tell yourself it’s just a crush on a handsome dad but it doesn’t stop his face from lingering in your mind as you drift off, thinking about the warmth of his body next to yours on the couch; his deep voice; those rich, brown eyes.


	2. TUESDAY

**WEEK TWELVE**

“ _Help me_!”, Lucia shrieks, her high-pitched laughter ringing through the house as you let yourself in the front door and a small smile tugs at your lips, bubbling into a laugh when you walk into the living room.

“No – help _me_ ”, Frankie pleads, his smile bright when he looks up at you from above Lucia’s wiggling body; his fingers digging into her side, her neck, her legs. Leaving the two of them wrestling on the carpet, you walk over to the couch and drop down onto it, shaking your head at both of their pleas.

“I think this is between you two”, you reply, tucking your legs underneath you. “I don’t wanna get dragged into whatever” – a wave of your hand in their general area – “is happening down there.”

His eyes narrow at you, a mischievous smile spreading across his cheeks when he stops tickling her, leaning down to whisper in her ear and you can guess from her breathless giggles that he is telling her that they should gang up on you. The thought of him tickling you both excites and makes you nervous but you try to keep your face neutral; an ache warming in your belly at the thought of his hands skating on your skin, at him pining you beneath his weight.

“Papa says we should get you”, Lucia says, twisting in his grip to get away, “but I wanna read.”

Climbing up on the couch, she settles her small body next to you, quickly brushing her hair out of her face. “You can leave now, because I wanna read with her”, she announces at Frankie, giggling at his shocked face that slides into a pout.

Hopping down from the couch to fetch the book that the two of you started last week, she runs down the hallway into her room and he rolls onto his back with a groan, stretching out onto the carpet.

“How was your week?” he asks, and you try not to look at the way his shirt is pulling up again when you tell him about it. Weeks of that sliver of hip, the image is burned into your memory. _Do all of his shirts do that?_

“Okay”, you reply, leaning back into the cushions. “That test I was telling you about didn’t go so bad. Ended up being easier than I thought.”

“I told you it would be.” His arms fold in an easy motion behind his head, his gaze looking up at you and you aren’t sure, but you think you can detect pride in his voice, which makes you smile. “Did you celebrate with your sister? At that taco place you like?”

Touched that he remembered your plans about what you would do if you passed, you tell him yes and he is grinning at how many you said you ate (“Four – or wait, maybe five. But they were like, really good”) when he sits up with a cinch, looking past the couch with an awestruck expression.

“ _Que bella princesa_ ”, Frankie says lowly, and Lucia slowly walks into the living room, now dressed in a full princess costume. The gown is thrown on over her clothing, a sparkling tiara perched on her dark curls, satin gloves pulled high over her elbows and she looks expectantly at you, waiting for a compliment.

“ _Very_ beautiful, princess”, you oblige, peeking over at Frankie with a grin and he nods in agreement before winking at you. “Have you decided you’d rather play dress up?”

Her face splits into a smile, nodding yes and Frankie takes that as a sign to leave, getting up with a sigh. He doesn’t want to go, he’d much rather stay and talk with you now that you’re here – something he’s been looking forward to all week, if he’s being honest – but he knows if he’s late again, he’ll never hear the end of it.

Watching you walk down the hallway with Lucia towards her bedroom, he mirrors the smile and wave you give to him before you step into her room and it’s that look he’s thinking about when he puts his hat and jacket on, when he leaves the house, when he climbs into his truck, as he drives to the bar.

Just looking for someone to come over a few hours a week so he could get out of the house, he didn’t expect to now be looking for a reason to _stay_. You’d slipped right into their routine, had become a part of their lives so easily that he’d found himself looking at the clock around 6pm on the nights you weren’t supposed to come over, missing your presence. Waiting to hear your voice ringing through the entryway after you’d let yourself in with the key he made for you, he’d remember that it wasn’t your night and a wave of disappointment would wash over him, the night now seeming to stretch on.

He wonders if he thinks about you too much, the way you pop into his head while working, while driving, while going through his evening with Lucia. In the evening, he thinks about the warm heat of your body as you sit next to him on the couch, the way you lean into the cushions, your low, soothing voice. 

It’s this time of day that he thinks about you the most, the evening, wondering what you were doing tonight, how your classes went, how your day was going. Looking over at your side of the couch as if his thinking about you would make you magically appear, he’d twirl his phone in his hand, wondering if it would be appropriate to text you, wondering what he would even say. _Do you think about him like that? Do you also sit on your couch at night, wondering if you should text him?_

Always chickening out, he’d set it down with a sigh, never lasting long before heading to bed.

Thinking about how much shit the guys would give him if he mentioned _any_ of this to them, he slid into a parking spot at the bar and walking in, he decides to keep it all to himself; his mind still at home as he greets them.

**WEEK FOURTEEN**

It’s quiet – too quiet – when you let yourself in the front door and as you set your bag down in the entryway, you wonder if maybe they went somewhere and forgot to cancel. The thought makes your heart drop just for a moment; you’d been looking forward to coming over all week.

“ _Frankie_?”, you call out, walking into the house, “Luci—”

You are cutoff by a waving motion; Frankie’s large hand signaling you from the couch and when you walk over, you wince at the loud way you just called out. Lucia is asleep on his chest, her sweet face resting on his shoulder and he places his hand on her back, smiling up at you.

“I’m sorry”, he whispers, his warm brown eyes taking you in, “I would have called, but I left my phone in the bedroom. She fell asleep while we were watching TV and I didn’t wanna wake her.”

You nod, leaning down to peer at her and he collects her dark hair in his hand, gently brushing it back from her face. Her plump cheeks look even bigger pressed against his chest like that, her mouth open in sleep, her thick lashes fanned out and he watches as you look at her, a tired smile tugging at his lips at how soft you look right now, your gaze warm with affection.

“Did you want me to help you move her?”, you whisper back, “Are you still going to go out?”

“No”, he answers softly, shaking his head. “I’m gonna just stay in. Can you do me a favor though? Can you get my phone from my bedroom?” He sighs, swiping his hand over his face, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. “I should probably let those guys know I’m not coming out tonight.”

Nodding, you pad down the hallway to his bedroom. It’s a room you haven’t been in before, one that’s always felt a bit off limits and as you walk in and switch the light on, you still feel a little hesitant crossing over the threshold.

A big bed dominating the space, you take in the grey comforter, the neat way it’s made and an image of him in that bed quickly flashes through your mind. ( _Is he a stomach sleeper? A back sleeper? Does he read before bed?_ ) Your eyes scan the room for his phone, finding it on his bedside table and when you grab it, you resist the urge to lean in and smell the pillow, now imagining _what_ he sleeps in. _Get a grip_ , you scold yourself, walking quickly out of the room.

“Thanks”, he smiles tiredly, reaching out for it and you ask if you can get him anything else before you go. Shaking his head, you watch as he reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the couch, trying to position it over the two of them and when he fails, you take it from him; his face grateful when you fan it out over their bodies.

“Thank you”, he says again, reaching out to squeeze your leg in thanks. His grasp on the inside of your knee is warm, the heat of it pressing through your pants and he may as well have his hand pressing between your legs with how much you feel it there; the firm grip burning a path straight up the inside of your thigh.

“No problem”, you reply, thinking again of his bedroom, of the low rasp of his voice right now and you wonder if it would sound the same in there, whispered into your ear. Looking around the room, you try to think of a reason to stay and you don’t know it, but he’s thinking the same thing. 

He wonders if he should just ask you to stay - move Lucia into her bedroom, order some dinner, watch a movie - _would you want that?_ All he knows is he just wants you to _stay_ and he is just about to ask when you speak first.

“I guess I’ll see you next week?” you ask, already turning towards the front door and he nods, his hand leaving your leg.

He’s pretty sure he sees disappointment on your face and he feels the same way when he hears you let yourself out. Brushing his lips over Lucia’s soft hair, he shifts on the couch underneath her limp, warm body and scolds himself for letting the moment pass. 

_I should have asked_.

**WEEK SIXTEEN**

“Oh my god”, he whispers excitedly, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it on the back of the couch. Sitting down next to you, he keeps his eyes on the screen as he reaches down to unlace his boots; one, then the other, toeing them off.

“This is such a good part”, he says, turning to smile at you. “I love when –”

“Shhhh – hang on.” You wave frantically at him, signaling him to be quiet while you fish for the remote and when you find it, you carefully hit pause, turning to face him.

“So I haven’t seen this movie before and –” you pause when he opens his mouth in shock, smiling at his expression. A look of barely restrained eagerness flashes across his face and you laugh as he settles into the couch, clearly getting comfortable. “It’s so good, Frankie.”

He squeezes his teeth together in excitement, his cheeks plumping with the motion, those crinkles around his eyes deepening and he reaches out to briefly grip your thigh. “I know!”, he gushes, shifting his hips down to get comfortable. “It’s one of my favorite movies – I can’t believe you haven’t seen it before.”

The cushion sinking underneath his weight, your body tips towards his with how close he is sitting, and you wonder if he notices the closeness – maybe not, with how focused he seems on the movie right now – and he motions for you to press play, clearly eager to continue.

“Come on”, he says, poking your leg again, “let’s watch.”

Pressing play, you are distracted by the warm heat of his body from across the cushion, the scent of his skin, the glow of the screen highlighting the boyish excitement on his face right now as he watches and you let your gaze run over his profile just for a moment before focusing back on the screen, leaning towards him a little more with a smile.

–

The movie long since ended, along with the playful argument about whether or not it’s the _best_ movie (“it is”, he insists, you respectfully disagree) the room is dark save for the lamp in the corner glowing dimly; the two of you hunched over your phones, your bodies sliding closer together as you lean to share the small screens.

“Well, there’s your problem”, you quietly laugh, taking his phone from him. “You should put a picture on here without your hat on.” Rapidly swiping through his profile selfies, you shake your head at the flashing images: Frankie fishing, Frankie at the beach, Frankie in his backyard and he plucks his phone from your hand defensively.

“What?”, he asks, frowning at the pictures. “You can still see my face.”

“I know. I just think you should have maybe one without your hat?” You look at him for a moment, his gaze still fixed on his own small screen, his features illuminated by it. You look away, picking up your own phone. “You have really nice hair is all. You should show it.”

He looks over at you thoughtfully, a small smile on his lips until you look up at him, meeting his gaze.

“It’s true”, you smile, holding eye contact for a moment. You aren’t sure how you’d gotten on the topic of dating woes, but the more you think about it, the more you _don’t_ want to think about it. You wonder if he’s gone on any dates, your stomach twisting with a swift punch of jealousy for those women if he has and you change the subject. 

“Doesn’t explain what’s wrong with my profile though – I’ve got nothing but losers so far.” You show him your phone with a sigh as he laughs, a self-deprecating smile on your lips as you swipe through your own selfies. “I mean”, you holding it out to him, swiping with your finger, “I feel like these look okay, right? I look normal, don’t I?”

Frankie takes the phone from you, examining the photos – he thinks you look more than normal; these pictures are beautiful. You, on vacation somewhere warm, you, a selfie with a friend and he laughs at the last one: you, buried under your blankets on your bed, only your face peeking out.

“I mean—“, he starts and you interrupt, leaning in closer, your shoulders now touching.

“It said to include pictures of your favorite past times”, you explain with a shrug. “Sleep is definitely one of those.”

He huffs a laugh at your answer, handing your phone back to you. “I suppose that works.” His seat shifts on the couch again; his body still leaning in, his shoulder still touching yours, but moving enough to turn and face you.

“It’s pretty late for someone who enjoys sleeping”, he says lowly, his eyes drifting from your eyes down to your mouth and back again. “I mean – has this been – have I been keeping you too late?”

“Oh god no.” The answer comes out faster than you wish it did, your eagerness betraying you and he smiles at the way you look right now; slightly embarrassed, trying to play it off.

“Good”, he says, the light of the lamp only just catching the brown in his eyes as he looks at you. “I like it when you stay late.”

You say nothing, smiling at his answer and you can’t think about anything other than _he’s so close_ when he suddenly drops his hand onto your leg, patting it quickly; once, twice.

“I still can’t believe you’ve never seen The Bodyguard.” He shakes his head while using his fists as a brace to sit up, leaning forward to scoot to the edge of the cushion when he peers at the clock by the TV with a frown.

“Christ, it’s already two in the morning – how’d it get to be so late?” He looks back at you, giving you a sympathetic frown at the wide yawn you’re letting out. “You wanna just stay here for the night? I’m not sure I want you to drive home right now, not at bar close.”

Your heart jumps into your throat at the invitation, immediately thinking about that big bed just down the hall, that grey comforter.

“We’re going to the beach in the morning” he continues, standing with a groan and a stretch, your eyes drifting down to the sliver of exposed skin above his pants, the waistband of his briefs only just visible. “I’m sure she’d love it if you could come. If you aren’t busy.”

“Sure” you reply, a knot of tension building at the thought of spending the night in his house. Maybe not in his bed, you think as he makes up the couch for you, but you didn’t expect that; not really. 

“My room is just down the hall”, he says, his hand reaching up under the hem of his t shirt, absentmindedly scratching his stomach as he yawns, “come and get me if you need me. Otherwise see you in the morning?”

You nod at the words, saying goodnight to him and he hesitates just for a moment ( _you’re pretty sure, his eyes lingering on your stretched out body_ ) giving you one last tired smile before leaving you; your eyes following his broad back down the hallway.

The heat of his body lingers in the cushion he was sitting on and you press your palm against it, curling your body over the spot to settle in for the night. The blanket he gives you smells like him, the pillow one from his bed and you lay awake, thinking about him getting ready for bed, just in the other room. 

You picture him tugging the comforter back, sliding between the cool sheets and you’ve never wanted anything more in your life than to crawl in there with him; your eyes eventually sliding shut when you see him turn his light off.

You can tell it’s late when something wakes you up – the sound of someone moving around in the room – and it takes you a moment to remember where you are, your eyes blinking rapidly to focus in the dark. It’s Frankie, pressing the heel of his hand against his eye as he pads into the kitchen and you are wide awake now, holding your breath at the way he looks. 

Wearing a threadbare t shirt on top and black briefs on the bottom, you can see him in the kitchen, the light above the stove softening the scene as he gets a drink of water at the sink. He’s trying to be quiet in his movements, still half asleep himself from the looks of it; his hair mussed and unruly, the cotton of the shirt tight across his shoulders, his legs lean and long, his briefs high on his thighs. 

You watch him take a drink, your heart thundering when he reaches down to absentmindedly adjust himself through the black fabric. An intense heat builds between your thighs at the sight – not only the heft of him outlined underneath the tight fabric, but also the intensely intimate way he looks right now – and you clamp your eyes shut when he turns to go back to bed, hoping he doesn’t notice you’re awake. 

Not going to sleep anytime soon now, you hope Lucia isn’t an early riser as you turn on the cushions, deeply sighing at what you know is going to be a long night.


End file.
